The Mortal Curse
by PhiaRose777
Summary: Raven knows nothing of who she is. Raised by wolves and taught by Ents in Fangorn forest she lives a life of survival. Seeking revenge on those who have sought to destroy her home, she gets placed under a terrible curse that puts a time limit on her immortal life. Finding friends and making enemies along the way, Raven must find a cure, and the answers to all her questions.OC


**Disclaimer: **Alas, I am not the one responsible for the world of Arda. Any Characters, Settings or Events that you recognize from any of J.R.R. Tolkien's works are not mine.

**I would like to say that a large part of the finished writing is thanks to my very talented Beta CupcakeLoopy, she has greatly aided me in my writing so far and has added much detail to the text.**

**AN- **The ageing of elves is different to that of a human, before you get confused with Rhavaniel's ageing . Humans mature at 20 whereas elves mature at 50 and then stop visibly ageing, so however old the story states Rhvanaviel as she will act and appear to the eye of one less than half her age; e.g. If she is 5 then she will look and behave like a 2 year old human.

**Check**** out my profile for pictures information regarding the story**

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**The Mortal Curse**

It can be said that the actions we take in life are what shapes us, moulds us, into the people we become, or changes us from what we are into what we hoped or feared we would be. The consequences of our actions may not only affect us, but could also change the lives of those we love, or result in uprooting the lives of complete strangers. The problem is that not many people take this into account and by then the deed is done.

I am, or was, one of these people, and by my own hand I changed my fate in more ways than one. This is my story.

**-prologue-**

Year 2563 of the Third Age

The wind soared across the planes of the West Emnet, urgently streaming through the tall grasses and seasoned rocks. It dove along the paths seeming to search for something on the empty terrain. The gust flew along the Entwade River, creating tumultuous ripples and casting up silver sprays, until it came across a lone party of travellers.

"We should turn back now, while we still have light left," called a rasping voice among the party, trying to outdo the environment's loudness, "there is no shelter for miles bordering the forest, and we cannot very well endure this retched weather for much longer".

A cloaked head look up, which had been previously bowed from the assault of the wind and rain swirling around them.

"As much as I would like to Beriadan, we have come too far already; the last settlement is four miles behind and it would be unwise, at this time, to turn back," spoke a softer feminine voice.

Dûrion, hidden beneath a heavy moss-colored cloak, sighed, looking over to his wife Caladhiel . Her hood shrouded most of her face, but she met his eyes with a look of determination, before returning down to the small bundle pressed securely against her bosom.

"We shall seek shelter in the forest," Dûrion spoke, holding his hand up to silence the imminent interruptions, "we shall not go too far in, just to the edge, to shield us against the worst of this weather. I wish to return to Lórien as soon as possible".

No one questioned his words, despite the few uncertain looks that directed themselves at the dark expanse, the forest looming eerily in the distance; the only sound heard was that of the prattling rain and whining wind, going on and on for miles.

Fangorn Forest got its frightening reputation from somewhere and, as much as Dûrion disliked it, the woodland was the only shelter they would find at the hour. Despite his wife's tenacious nature, the man did not want her to turn back, only to have to walk for miles until the next _sighting_ of refuge.

The night held an icy edge to it from the late winter shadows.

They entered the forest, but halted just past the first tree line, where there was still some wind and rain but with a fainter bite.

"We shall rest here," Dûrion said to the company of Eight, "stay near each other, and keep the horses tethered nigh as well".

Still casting wary looks into the forest, the elves went about the habitual routine they had begun earlier in the seven days travel.

Two of the guards in the company started to make a fire. Dûrion went to stop them but immediately halted after seeing how wet, cold and miserable everyone was. Even with their elvish endurance and resistance, many of the company were shivering lightly, Eleniel included. They had refrained from lighting any fires, so far, for it drew too much attention—especially on the West Emnet, where anything alive could see its brightness for miles upon miles. But perhaps, just this time, the trees would cover most of the light.

Dûrion went and sat next to Caladhiel, throwing an arm around her shoulders. She turned towards him and carefully, as if handling an already cracked piece of delicate, china, leaned over to hand over the small bundle. He looked down at the sleeping five-year-old baby, and gently stroked away a strand of her wet hair. The colouring was identical to his own: black as a starless night that shined raven blue when caught by rays of sun—an unusual colour amongst the Elven race, as most, especially those who dwelt in woods, were fair of colouring, much like his wife.

Rhavaniel was the name of their child, and like all Elven children, was cherished and loved by all, for she was the first baby to be born in just over 300 years.

That was the price of immortality; while never aging, elves could only have very few children, if not merely one, and they were often born many hundreds of years apart. The last child being born only 200 years prior, and such was highly unusual, for it was the smallest age gap seen since the beginning of the Second Age.

Dûrion tore his eyes away from the small face of his child to look at Eleniel.

"She looks like you," he whispered to his wife, lovingly.

She grinned, forming a small dimple at the edge of her mouth, "no, she looks like you; she has more of your features,"

"She is far too beautiful to ever bear my appearance," he objected, "besides, she has your eyes, _melamin_".

And as if to prove said statement, little Rhavaniel opened her eyes to look up at her Father; her eyes identical to that of her Mother's, were truly breathtaking—forest green at the center around the pupil, turning to daytime sky blue that was outlined by midnight blue at the edge of the iris.

She went back to sleep moments later, snuggled into the, still humid, arms of her Father. It was moments like these, surrounded by his beloved family, that Dûrion felt like the luckiest elf alive, sadly such luck runs in streaks, and his was about to end.

Dûrion returned his child to Caladhiel, unbeknownst that it would be the last time that he'd glance upon her, and stood up to check on the camp and its campers.

The five other elves, which had been tasked with the protection of Caladhiel and Rhavaniel, were already asleep. After the long ride from Edoras, where they had been residing for the last five years, the elves were certainly glad to be returning to their home. Both Dûrion and Eleniel were there visiting friends when Eleniel went into labour two months ahead of time unexpectedly. They felt it best not to travel with a new born baby, one so small at that. So they stayed there until a week ago, when by the request of Dûrion, a small group of elves from Lórien came to escort Rhavaniel and her parents home. No one had yet seen the new addition to the Golden Woods, thus it was an enthusing time for all.

Dûrion was shaken awake a few hours later by Nér, who had been on watch at the time. He stood up abruptly reaching for his sword Moricuil . He felt the hilt warm slightly, and noted that the inscription woven around the blade glowed a light blue. Orcs were near.

It was a special sword, forged by Elves, Dwarfs and Men alike—with magic encased within, which indicated when a creature of the shadows was near. The sword was made so that the pitch-black blade could only harm the foul creatures; it could not be used with any ill intention against any other being of light.

Moricuil however was not crafted for him. The one who had given it to him said it was for another, one who's life had not yet come to pass, but when it did, Dark-life would find them, and only would through him. It was partly due to the terrible prophecy that was issued with the sword, that Dûrion had mostly kept it hidden from view. It was said that the true wieldier of Moricuil live a life divided, lingering between light and dark, and that their actions would decide their ultimate fate in the end. The other reason as to why it stayed hidden was its appearance. Dûrion was always cast fearful looks upon taking out the blade, it just looked so wicked, like it should belong to something evil instead of a wood Elf.

With its looks combined with the name 'Dark-life', Dûrion did not trust that the next owner of the sword would tread the path of light.

He unsheathed Moricuil when the malefic screeching and growling of Orcs was heard not far from their camp, barely on the edge of the forest. The other men were already in battle stances grasping for their selective weapons, notching arrows, and raising their swords. With a single nod to the others, Dûrion ran over to an alert Caladhiel , who was clutching Rhavaniel desperately to her chest.

Placing a hand on her back, he started guiding her deeper into the woods.

"Follow me!" he commanded, running in the opposite direction from the heated fray that had broken out behind them.

Their escape, however, did not go unseen.

It was a large party of Orcs—the presence of whom they had not heard any news of from the townspeople, or in the reports of Rohirrim riders as they approached the woods. It was so enormous that small portions of the abominable creatures were able to break through the protective wall of guards and gave chase into the woods, following after Dûrion and Eleniel.

Dûrion's hissed through his teeth. Before he noticed its presence, a dark shape ran out from a tree behind them. It veered briefly towards Caladhiel, but shrieked and jumped back when it met the black steel of Dûrion's blade. The writing shined blue through the blood and shadows, lighting up the area.

For the first time since Rhavaniel's birth, fear crept into Dûrion's heart; it was cold fear for his wife and daughter.

"I'm sorry, _amaelamin_. Go deeper into the forest and don't look back. I shall not let them get you!" he declared, and with one last fleeting glance at his child, he twirled around to face the group of Orcs that had broken through the guards' defenses.

He jumped forward and hacked the Orc nearest to his position, then deflected the jagged Orc sword that was aimed at his arm by another. Dûrion kept up a valiant fight, his skill with a blade second to none in his woodland realm. He seemed to draw hidden energy from the trees surrounding him, senses sharpening and movements quicking.

A new wave of Orcs swarmed from the shades, yet he continued his defense and offence. Moricuil was swiped clean from his grasp, as it was caught by an upper-cut from an Orcish axe. It spun high up through the air, out of sight, and into the dark.

Still he did not desist. Unarmed and with a sudden spur, he dropped to the ground picking up a large branch. He thrust it at the nearest creature, catching it upside the head, and instantly breaking its neck.

A cold pain emitted from the center of his back. He paused slightly, and that was all it took for the adjacent Orc to drive his jagged, rusty steel into Dûrion's heart.

He did not die instantly, as one might expect. Instead he fell to the ground watching in horror as the remaining creatures ran in the direction of Eleniel and Rhavaniel.

His last breath hitched in his throat.

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Caladhiel ran. Tears spilled down her pale face, not in her own fear but in fear of the fate of her beloved and the child she held tightly. She knew Dûrion was dead. The bond linking them to one another was all but gone as his last breath left his lips. The only thought on her mind was that of Rhavaniel as she hid her in a grove of an old Elm tree in the center of a clearing. And with one last farewell kiss on the forehead, and a whispered prayer to the Valar for her safety, she spun around and shot into a different direction, leading the Orcs away from Rhavaniel.

She was a healer not a warrior, and so knew that when three arrows pierced her back just below the shoulder, she would be joining Dûrion is the halls of Mandos. She didn't stop, however. She ran leading the vile creatures as far away from her baby as she was able. Only when the fourth, and then fife arrow pierced her skin, did she drop to the cold forest floor. It was in that moment that Caladhiel daughter of Eärendil and Elwing met her end.

And a lone cry of a baby was swallowed into the night.

**AN- OK guys, so this is my first story ever and I'm rather new to everything on this site so bare with me! But as it says this is the description of the story, this will be about Rahvaniel's life growing up and the adventures and people she meets until it syncs in with the start of the fellowship of the ring (or maybe even the Hobbit). I'm just going off the top of my head with this story so don't make any assumptions about whether she joins the fellowship or finds romance and all that jazz, because I don't know yet.**

**Please review, I welcome all legit criticisms with open arms because I can improve that way. Also feel free to make any suggestions about where you want the story to go from here.**

**Check**** out my profile for pictures information regarding the story**


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